


At the Last Minute

by lq_traintracks (lumosed_quill)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: But This Is the Cleaned Up Version, Drunk Sex, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Intergluteal Sex, M/M, Mention of Bondage, Mirror Sex, Mirror of Erised, Room of Requirement, Room of Requirement Shenanigans, drunk author, mention of blow jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-11 12:47:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11714703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumosed_quill/pseuds/lq_traintracks
Summary: The eighth years find the Mirror of Erised in the Room of Requirement. Obviously they're going to want to use it to view their own sexual fantasies, right?





	At the Last Minute

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Firewhiskeyfic's July 2017 round! (This is the cleaned up version.)

Because of course it's a Slytherin that ends up whisking the tarp off the Mirror of Erised in the Room of Requirement. Who else? The only surprise to Harry is that it's not Malfoy himself but an already quite tipsy Pansy Parkinson. She's been in Malfoy's bloody lap all night, having Blaise fetch her dirty martinis at the imperious snap of her fingers, her willowy arms wound around Malfoy's haughty damn neck like she owns him. Like he likes it.

"What are you scowling at?" Hermione asks, elbowing him rather too hard. She's had a few red currant rums herself and tends to misjudge her strength when that happens. Harry rubs his side.

"It's Malfoy," Ron interjects, beer bottle on its way to his lips. "Bloody Merlin's pants, who invited them in the first place?"

"Luna," Harry and Hermione answer in unison. Though the disgusted look on Hermione's face isn't so much mirrored on Harry's. He doesn't think. He likes Luna after all. He's not so sure what Hermione has against her still. It's been two years since the war, and though yes, she still spouts ridiculous non-facts when least expected, it's not as though she's not proved herself, Harry thinks.

Unlike Malfoy. With his willowy-armed girlfriend hanging off him all night.

Fuck, he never should have come. But he couldn't very well miss their very last weekend at Hogwarts. Their seventh year had already been delayed in order to rebuild the castle, post-battle. It took a lot to get them all here for their final year. Blast if he's going to miss out on the last party of the year before they're all off to start their real lives.

And don't get him started on _that_ frightening prospect. He sort of wants to hide out here, if he's honest. Well, not in the Room of Requirement per se. But Hogwarts in general.

Maybe the Room of Requirement. If Malfoy weren't in it also that is.

"Harry!" someone shouts. "Isn't this it? Isn't this the Mirror of Erised?"

It's Dean, Harry realises, and if it had been a Slytherin he'd not have felt obligated to reply. At least not truthfully. 

As it is, he's pushed forward through the crowd of party-goers, and with a couple more nudges of encouragement, he's forced to nod in the affirmative. "Yeah. Looks like." He sips his Firewhiskey, fourth of the night, and tries not to remember how this magical relic, at first like a bounty bestowed upon him, instead became an awful harbinger of death and loss and a reminder of all he'd never ever have.

"Well, bloody hell," Seamus says in an awe-struck, gin-infused voice. "We can't not, right?"

"Can't not what?" Daphne Greengrass asks.

Harry looks around at this motley group of students, survivors, some of them friends. The alcohol dulls the lancing pain of his memories somewhat, but it still makes him wince when someone answers, "Use it!"

There are some whoops and shouts, some glasses clinking dangerously, and maybe if his gaze hadn't landed on Malfoy in that moment, Harry would have just politely declined, maybe made his excuses and retired to the dormitory to sink into a four Firewhiskey moroseness. 

But he happens to see Malfoy just then, slumped in an armchair, Pansy squirming happily in his relaxed, posh, stupid lap. 

He happens to catch Malfoy's eye and hold it.

He happens to see the burgeoning smirk on that pointy fucking face, the subtle widening of his bony knees in those expensive trousers.

Harry turns his gaze to an increasingly drunk Ron, which is probably not the best idea either.

"Fuck it," Ron says, focusing on one of perhaps many of Harry's faces if Ron's glazed eyes are to be believed. He slings his arm around Harry's shoulders, and though it's a drunken gesture, Harry still feels emboldened by it. He glances at Hermione's caring expression just beyond.

"Yeah, fuck it," he says, and the room seems to erupt in drunken approval.

Someone pushes the Mirror forward into the centre of the room, and Harry steels himself for whatever might transpire.

Thankfully he's not the first to go before it. But it's a double-edged sword as it gives someone – Blaise Zabini it turns out – ample enough time to decide that there should be rules involved.

"What sort of rules?" Anthony Goldstein asks.

Blaise rubs his hands together. "Well," he says, looking around the room with a particularly unsettling look in his eye. "I don't exactly know how it works, I'll admit. But wouldn't it just be so much more fun if…"

"If what," comes a voice from the corner of the room.

Malfoy's voice, Harry recognises instantly. That insolent drawl could never been mistaken for anybody else.

Harry looks over to see Malfoy removing Pansy's arms as though they're some parasitic infestation inflicted on his person. He nudges, and she practically falls from his lap. Malfoy rises from the chair with nary a glance at her. Though he does, strangely, glance at Harry momentarily as he comes forward slowly. He's got a glass of clear liquid swirling in his dignified hand, and Harry finds himself scowling at the graceful grip holding the glass before he can stop himself.

"If…?" Malfoy presses as he nears.

"Well," Blaise smirks but then falters.

"If we intend for the Mirror to show us our fantasies, you mean? Our sexual fantasies?" Malfoy clarifies, and Harry's stomach drops into his shoes at Malfoy's suggestion. A very, very stupid part of his brain fixates on that one word.

_Malfoy said sexual. Malfoy said sexual. Malfoy said bloody sexual._

Harry downs what was left of his drink and Summons a new one wandlessly. Malfoy's gaze flicks to the movement, meets Harry's gaze for a second, and then resumes on Blaise.

"Well…. Yeah." Blaise shrugs.

Malfoy smiles. "Fantastic," he says. He throws back his drink then, and his gaze inexplicably lands on Harry once again. A subtle smirk lifts one corner of his thin lips.

But it's hard to concentrate because the room is loud again with clapping and shouting and people jockeying to go first, to go last, to not have to go at all.

Harry feels he fits in with that last group, most definitely. 

But somehow he's being ushered to the front.

"No… I don't think…" He looks around at the group, and it's people he likes, people he trusts – Dean and Seamus, Luna, Neville, as well as others he's formed tenuous connections with, people he's come to see as his friends. Not like Ron and Hermione are. Not like Ginny once was. New friends though. People he likes. They're pushing him forward. He could walk away. He knows he could. But something happens in that moment. He wishes it didn't, but it does. He lets them move him, lets them make the decision he knows he'd reject outright if left to his own devices.

The thing is, he's been trying to get better at not doing that. For so long, it was only him, and Hermione, and Ron. It was only them, together. And then, in the end, it was only him. It was him and Voldemort. And then it was him alone in that forest. Him and the bright green light. Him and the end.

If this last year at Hogwarts has meant anything to him, it's been to show him that it's never just him anymore. Maybe it never was. It's _them_. All of them. Every single one. Merlin, even the Slytherins. Even them. He's been partnered with Daphne in Potions, Nott in Herbology, Zabini in Defence. 

It's been all of them. Everyone. Even when Harry would have preferred to crawl into a hole, when he would have wanted to do it all alone. He hasn't been allowed to. Not once this whole year.

He turns his head and looks at Hermione now, his touchstone, the ever-level head. She smiles at him and nods. 

So he sighs. He lets himself be propelled forward. 

He faces the thing that in a way started it all. The thing he had to face to defeat him the first time. The thing that proved to him that he belongs in this world.

"Alright, get off me," he jokes – and the fact that he's joking seems to determine, in some fucked up way, the tone of the entire room. He wishes he didn't have that much power. He wishes he weren't first. But since when has he not gone first?

Against his will, he glances again at Malfoy. Those cold grey eyes are anything but. They're intense. And in Harry's drunken state they seem almost blue. Almost. They're the colour of rain. Of sleet. Of a cold ocean, breaking on Harry's life again and again and again.

He wishes he weren't in the Room of Requirement right now. 

He does not want this to be required of him.

But Harry shakes the others off his shoulders and squares them. "Sexual fantasies, huh?" he asks, turning disdainful eyes at his friends, his acquaintances, his former enemies.

A whoop goes up from the crowd,

"Very well," he laments. Though a part of him is excited, is filled with excitement. The same way he used to be, adrenaline flooding his system, overtaking his body. "Another shot wouldn't be amiss here," he jokes, and the room responds.

Someone hands him a Firewhiskey, and he throws it back, grimacing, though he's feeling numb to it now.

He shakes himself, facing the Mirror for the first time in years. He purposefully clears his mind, closing his eyes for a moment. And then he lets it happen: He summons that middle-of-the-night feeling – that hand-down-his-pants, privacy-charms-up feeling. 

He's tended to try to imagine the naked, busty witches his friends have kept magazine copies of under their beds. He's good at trying to imagine that. Big tits, opening thighs, a wet cunt to take him in. Yes, that's good. That's working. That's what he always starts with.

But when he opens his eyes… when he sees what coalesces in the Mirror…

_Himself. His wrists bound above his head. His arms stretched to capacity. His cock so hard he's leaking, the slick running down his shaft._

Harry stares, mouth falling open. The image of himself, nude and sweating, his cock hard enough to touch his belly… He swallows convulsively, torn between watching the scene play out in the Mirror and inhabiting the scene itself, looking down his stretched body, strung from the ceiling, dangling there and…

There. On his knees. Malfoy.

_Malfoy._

His face tilting up, smirking at Harry. His mouth opening. His hand wrapping warm and snug around Harry's weeping cock. Stroking… Oh god, stroking up his length and meeting that smirking mouth before…

"Oh shit," Harry breathes as in the Mirror Malfoy engulfs Harry's cock in his mouth and goes down. Down. So far down. "Oh fuck."

The room howls with excitement, with impending satisfaction. And yet he can't stop looking, stop gaping at the image of himself, rocking into Malfoy's warm sucking mouth, the straps extending to the ceiling creaking in their secure pulleys. Drunk as he is, Harry can't distinguish if he's powerless or powerful. Restrained, he can't move, can't flee – and he doesn't want to. Merlin, he doesn't want to. He's deep in Malfoy's mouth and he'd gladly die there. Malfoy's mouth bobs on his dick, slick, languorous, dirty. Fuck, it's so dirty.

Harry feels his knees weaken. He gasps for breath. Someone reaches out to steady him. He stumbles back, away from the vision. Away from the truth.

He blinks, his stomach tossed up into his throat, his pulse firing rapidly, uncontrollably. The visions by which he was assaulted… he hasn't been subjected to anything like that before.

Not like this. 

Not in a room full of his friends.

Not anywhere else but the middle of the night, his privacy charms strong, his pants around his ankles.

Not anywhere else…. 

But sixth year. 

But all the time since.

But every midnight in that dormitory.

But every single moment he's alone and thoughtless, unvigilant.

Every moment. All the time.

Always.

_Malfoy._

Harry gasps, falling back, caught by protective hands not letting him fall on his arse.

He catches his breath, though he's still hard. He can still feel the leather straps stringing him up. He can still feel the sweat rolling down his back.

He can feel Malfoy's hot mouth sucking him.

Strong hands hold him up or he'd be on the bloody floor.

"Merlin," Seamus exclaims. "That must have been some hot bird!"

Harry gathers himself. Or tries to. 

He looks up to see the object of his reflection's affection… Malfoy, walking up to the Mirror himself. Harry blinks, the Firewhiskey hitting his bloodstream and flooding him. He brushes off the hands wanting to help him stay upright. He's not that drunk. He's just… He wasn't ready for what the Mirror showed him. He never has been, but this…

He blinks as Malfoy turns a superior look on him, the smirk revoltingly seductive.

Which it should not be. It's not as though anyone else could have seen what was in Harry's Mirror. Not Malfoy, not anyone.

Harry rights himself still further. "I need another Firewhiskey," he tells Ron, who he suddenly realises is the one at his elbow.

"Sure, Harry," Ron says, drawing his wand. "Mate, what did you see?"

Harry can't help the way his eyes dart to Malfoy and then track him. He can't help it. He never could,

"Nothing," he says. "The usual."

He watches Malfoy's friends push him to the forefront… watches Malfoy go only somewhat less than willingly. Harry hears the shouts and cat-calls, the friendly jeers of the crowd. Ron hands him a new drink, and Harry downs half of it. He swallows, the remnants of his own fantasy lingering like a dream.

Then Malfoy turns then and looks at him, meeting his gaze and holding it. His lips turn up, that familiar, maddening smirk appearing as his eyes flash at Harry.

"Go, Draco!" Parkinson shouts, laughing and stumbling in her impossible heels.

Harry watches avidly as Malfoy takes a deep breath, momentarily closes his eyes, and then opens them on the mirror in front of him.

Harry watches, the intensity of his attention reminding him of what it felt like to try to make his wand work the first time, his broom, his first transfiguration. His whole being seems zeroed in on Malfoy and whatever vision he may see.

He'd never considered it before… the implications: Draco Malfoy and the Mirror of Erised. He'd been too enraptured with the unfurling of his own story before his eyes. What would Malfoy see? The erasure of his own regrets and fallacies? Does he even _have_ those? Would he see the chances he had to do better and those that he either let slip away or actively shunned?

Would he see Harry? Bruised and beaten and on his knees in the Manor? On the Quidditch pitch? Preparing to duel? To go to war?

Would he see Harry at all?

Malfoy walks up to the Mirror as though it's a reckoning. Harry's chest goes tight. Because shit. When has he ever not wanted Malfoy to look at him like that? Like he had a worthy opponent? Like Harry mattered?

"Harry?" Ron asks.

"I'm good," Harry says. "Really," he says when Hermione's are-you-alright face appears over Ron's shoulder.

Harry once again focuses on Malfoy's intent on the Mirror… on the room's fall of hushed silence.

The Mirror appears grey to Harry, as he knows it will for the rest of the room. He's not concerned with them; he's concerned with the moment Malfoy's pupils dilate… the moment his whole body tenses. 

The moment he takes a gasping breath and holds it, transfixed by what the Mirror offers to him and him alone.

It takes a minute, maybe two. Minutes during which Harry feels held over a steep precipice. Minutes during which Malfoy breathes unconsciously, his narrow chest rising and feeling as though in dreaming sleep. Minutes during which Harry can observe him openly, in which Malfoy takes a gasp, holds it, and then nearly sinks to the floor in the aftermath.

Parkinson is there to help him up. So is Blaise. Neither too drunk to grasp their friend under his arms while he droops, boneless and breathless, between them.

It only takes a minute. Harry watches as Malfoy comes back to himself, much like Harry did after his experience with the mirror. 

"Draco, are you alright?" Blaise asks in an uncharacteristic display of concern.

Harry watches Malfoy nod, his breath still not back.

Harry knows the feeling.

_Malfoy's mouth a warm suction around his hard cock… His body stretched, skin prickling with every moment…_

As Blaise and Pansy try to escort Malfoy to the safety of his comfortable chair, Malfoy looks up and catches Harry's eye. The exchange lasts only seconds, fleeting glimpses of one another, their gazes locking. But Harry sees something he's never witnessed before: Malfoy incapable of a smirk, lost of his typical bravado. He sees Malfoy as undone as he himself had felt moments before.

Holding Harry's gaze, Malfoy pushes his friends off and straightens his shirt. He smoothes his hair back, gaze dropping to the floor as he walks away.

Inexplicably, Harry feels himself beginning to follow.

"Harry?" Hermione asks. "Are you alright?"

He manages to flash a nonchalant smile in her direction. "Yeah. I'm good," he says. "I'd be better if the Room would supply a loo."

When he turns back, he's lost sight of Malfoy, and instead he spots a neon sign perched on the wall, proclaiming, "Loo" in bright pink letters. Harry veers toward it, wanting only to relieve his bladder now and forget the party that's come to revolve around the Mirror. He just wants to take a piss, to leave his ghosts behind and sleep off the ill-conceived whiskey.

He pushes into the provided room, inhaling the scent of lemons and cleanliness. He stumbles into a stall and unzips his flies, staggering up to the gaping yawn of the porcelain toilet and withdrawing his dick. He thinks of the things he thought would bring him peace and solidity: being an Auror, having friends, leaving the war behind. Leaving so much behind.

"It won't, you know," comes that insufferable voice.

"Fuck. What?" Merlin, had he spoken aloud? He was already letting go, so Harry pisses into the loo regardless, the relief filling him up, coaxing a deep sigh from his lungs, even though bloody Malfoy is just on the other side of the metal wall.

"It won't do any good," Malfoy says as Harry hears the stream of piss emptying into the urinal. "But thanks for conjuring a loo for fuck's sake."

Harry inhales to reply, realises he doesn't know what he wants to say, and then answers, "Fuck off, Malfoy." He shakes his dick free of the lingering drops, fumbling with his flies once he's done. Merlin shit, the last thing he needs is Malfoy in here with him. He really just needs to sleep… to pass out and forget how much the war still clings to his skin, no matter how hard he scrubs at it, purges it, tries to forget it.

"Ahhhhh," Malfoy groans, and Harry can't help but listen as he relieves himself.

"I said, fuck off." Harry does his best not to slur.

"And yet, I'm still here." The smirk in Malfoy's smug voice is obvious, and Harry finds himself slamming out of the stall like this is some kind of winnable battle – like the war's still inexorably on.

"I didn't bloody invite you," Harry says, rounding the corner to find Malfoy washing his prim, stupid hands in the basin.

Malfoy meets his gaze in the mirror, undaunted. "And Merlin knows you're the centre of the bloody universe, right Potter?"

"Sod off," Harry seethes, even though he knows he's without reason. There is no battle. There is no war. It's just him and Malfoy alone in a bathroom again but this time with no wands drawn.

Malfoy turns, shaking his hands of water. "What did you see, Potter?"

Harry frowns. "What?"

Malfoy pushes off the sink, approaching. "You heard me. What did you see?"

A muscle in Harry's cheek twitches. Malfoy's nearness has him short of breath. "What do you mean?"

"I mean the Mirror," Malfoy says, walking in closer. "What did you see?"

"That's none of your bloody business," Harry insists. Though he knows it's not true. He knows the illicit pleasure of Malfoy on his knees in front of him, taking Harry's hard cock into his mouth.

"This is the Room of Requirement," Malfoy says silkily. "You know that, right?"

What's building inside of Harry is untenable. It's unacceptable. It's too much.

Fuck Malfoy and his smirking and insinuations and his shirt unbuttoned so that Harry has to see that little peek at his chest. 

Fuck the way his sharp jaw twitches and makes Harry want to lean in and mouth his soft skin, his sharp cheekbones, his slender throat. Fuck his arrogant stance, his hipbones, his waist begging for Harry's hands.

"I know you need to leave now," Harry says, jaw clenching.

"Do you?" Malfoy says. He walks in close to Harry, his body heat so enticing, his breath close and warm and fucking everything Harry keeps dreaming about. "It's just us here, Potter," Malfoy says, his voice too close, too sweet and irritating and perfect against the fluttering of Harry's pulse in his neck.

"Fuck you," Harry breathes.

"About time," Malfoy murmurs back.

And without deciding, without anything like divine interference, like fate, like justice, they're kissing. Open mouths. Biting teeth. Everything Harry's always imagined. More.

"Fuck you," Harry says, the bite of Malfoy's teeth strong on his bottom lip.

"What did you see?"

Harry kisses him. "Fuck you."

Malfoy's tongue in his mouth. Retreating, "What did you see?"

"Fuck you."

Malfoy nearly melts against him. "Is that right? That what you saw, Potter?"

Harry finds his hands roaming down Malfoy's body, gripping him hard and pulling him close. "What if it was?" said against his lips.

Malfoy's hands slip under his shirt. "It's what I saw."

"It is?" The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. His head his swimming in alcohol.

"Merlin, Potter, don't be stupid." Malfoy's lips move against Harry's neck. Harry stumbles back, leans against the sink and opens his legs. Malfoy fits his hips there conveniently. His cock is hard, pressing against Harry's hip insistently. "Don't pretend you didn't know."

Harry leans back, searching his eyes. "But Pansy," he says. "She's your girlfriend. Right?"

Malfoy slants him a patronising smile. "You can't be serious." And then his lips, softer than Harry ever imagined, slant across his own. Malfoy's hands descend and work on his flies. His tongue pushes into Harry's mouth.

_It's what I saw._

"You saw me?" Harry asks, unable not to.

Malfoy's gaze meets his, even as his hand stuffs itself down the front of Harry's trousers, inside his pants for Merlin's sake. Malfoy's hand wraps around his hard cock. "I always see you, Potter."

And then his hand strokes up, pulls at Harry's erect cock, and descends back down to the root, fondling his balls, rolling them. He smiles, his hand tugging again at Harry's straining erection. "What do you see?"

Harry closes his eyes. He surrenders.

"Everything," he says.

He pulses his hips, sliding his dick into Malfoy's warm, grasping hand.

"Everything," he says again. 

_His hands bound. His cock in Malfoy's mouth._

"Everything," he breathes. "Fuck. You. _You._ " Harry starts to thrust.

He feels the fumbling. Malfoy's free hand, loosing his own cock. "Fuck yeah." Their pricks press together, both leaking. "God yes."

Malfoy starts thrusting, his cock against Harry's, and Harry can't help but meet him – weeks, months, bloody _years_ between them.

His bed invaded by visions of this, of Malfoy, them thrusting together. Visions that haunt him, that defy everything he thought he should be.

He shoves Malfoy's trousers and pants down violently. "Fuck you, Draco."

"Is that what you saw?" Malfoy's breath in his face.

Malfoy's hips thrust against him, their slick cocks sliding, hot and ready.

"Is it?" Malfoy asks, his face insinuating against Harry's neck, hand sliding up, fingers finding Harry's nipple and pinching.

"Fuck yes," Harry exhales. And then he's coming, his cock emptying on Malfoy's tense stomach, his eyes squeezing closed. " _Fuck_ yes!"

And then before he's even finished, Malfoy's turning him, grasping his wrists and pressing his palms to the dirty mirror and bending Harry at the waist. Malfoy's hands tug at his trousers, baring his arse. "I see this every night," Malfoy says, insinuating his hard cock between the cheeks of Harry's arse. Harry jerks into the porcelain sink, his prick still shooting a little, body convulsing.

"Just like this, "Malfoy breathes. And his hard cock slides against Harry's hole. His hands meet Harry's again on the glass, fingers intertwining. "Always this." He thrusts, hips rolling. Harry leans his face against the cool of the mirror, letting Malfoy use him as he wishes. He widens his legs, making room for Malfoy to step in closer, to rut against him feverishly. Harry opens his eyes to watch, knowing he'll regret it. 

But in the mirror is Malfoy's expression: lost, lax, enraptured. In the mirror is Draco Malfoy wanting him, striving against him, hands clenching in his own, hips whipping rhythmically.

In the mirror is every sordid thing Harry's ever wished for. Malfoy's body crushed against his own, his cock sliding between the cheeks of his arse, and then, expression transformed with the bliss of it, Draco Malfoy coming against his lower back, making fists around his wrists, laying his cheek to the place between Harry's shoulder blades, breathing there.

Malfoy's hands slip down Harry's arms. His flushed face lifts, blown eyes blinking. Harry feels Malfoy's warm spunk slide between his cheeks, down his thighs.

Malfoy backs off, pushing his spent cock into his trousers, not meeting Harry's gaze in the foggy mirror.

Shaking a little, Harry rights himself… stuffs his prick into his pants and fumbles with his flies.

"I knew this party was a bloody mistake," Malfoy laughs shakily.

Harry turns, not knowing what to say, what to do. He just came with Draco Malfoy. Draco Malfoy came – because of him.

"I don't believe in mistakes," he says, half believing it.

Malfoy smirks, his cock put away but the post-orgasm blush still spreading attractively across his chest. "Bullshit, Potter."

Harry feels the smile twitching at his mouth. "I've had a lot to drink. What do you expect?"

Malfoy seems to sober some. "I didn't expect anything," he says.

"Didn't you?" The words are out of Harry's mouth too quickly, irretractible. "What did you really see in the Mirror?" He can still feel where Malfoy came, the slick between his thighs incriminating both of them.

"Does that matter now?" Malfoy's eyes don't meet his own, wandering along the cool tile as though the grout holds some sort of interest.

"Yes," Harry says. The truth has always been so simple, if unspeakable before now. Unspeakable still, even though the word hangs in freefall between them. Harry wishes he could take it back and say no.

Malfoy straightens himself, glimpses his reflection in the mirror beyond Harry and smoothes back his hair, already perfect. "Whatever, Potter," he says. He turns to the door, hand on the knob and turning when Harry surges forward and stops him, spins him, presses him back without a second thought and kisses him.

When their lips part for breath, Malfoy gasps a quick, "Potter," but then Harry's tongue pushes between his posh, proper, pureblood lips and shuts him up.

Malfoy's back pressed against the door, their bodies flush, Harry kisses him. He kisses him like he never dared to imagine, in a way the Mirror – honest and forthright as it is – could never ever show. Because this is inconceivable.

"Fffuck," Malfoy groans, hands slipping up Harry's back and pulling him even closer.

Harry clutches Malfoy's body tight to his own. It's nearing his last night at Hogwarts, his very last. He's done nearly everything else under this roof. He's done and seen unspeakable things. He has inconceivable things before him. All that is truly in his control is this moment. And it's far too late in the making.

"I want you again," Harry admits, his cock rising between them, trapped by the denim of his jeans.

"I want you always," Malfoy answers. 

He unzips Harry's jeans again. They share a smile. They kiss once more, drowning in it, and they start to thrust.


End file.
